


Shine

by crowroad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Dreams, Episode: s11e04 Baby, Family, Prayer, Sam Winchester's Visions, Season/Series 11, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:29:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad/pseuds/crowroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s wearing  a t-shirt that says ,“fallen angels do it in riddles.” </p>
<p>Dreams. She can take them there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine

 

_You burn hot in the presence of God._

_I can take you there._

*****

Sam’s wearing a t-shirt, gray, little snag in the crew, that says “fallen angels do it in riddles,” sweat-stain, crimson lettering. Sluicing over his brother’s darling in his summer clothes. It might be 1995, but it isn’t; time’s slipped them again, must have. It smells like summer in Iowa, not quite, somewhere dexter and north of home.  

She’s shining in the sun. She’s shining.

_You, Samuel, are my darling_ , someone says, lifts shades up over a strong septum, promises alchemy.

*****

Sam’s wearing Dean’s jacket, leather; hanging at the clavicle something very old.

There’s a road through the corn that his brother comes walking up, scythe-swinging. Chain-swung sign on the mailbox that sings **_Winchesters!_** in sunstruck weatherproof.

_Nothing is weatherproof, Sammy_ , is what he hears, _you never could never fool yourself_.

This voice is fond. Hair-ruffling. Kind he shouldn’t be hearing alone. Woodshed-cool.

There’s a storm cellar, wind-banged door, oil and paint; panic-waft of a new trap.

He used to shine like that; used to shine right through his own dark, through whole cities of exhaust.

_Sammy,_ Dean says, cuts a corn-swath and comes to him, wheel-hands empty and out.

*****

_You burn hot in the presence of God._

_I burn cold._

*****

Sam’s in flannel, rolling up a ribbon of moon.

It’s a dream, kind you get with aftermath, with a low fever, with, Dean says, the sweet strain of stowed secrets.

_I’m not in your blood, I promise,_ say the leftovers, vestiges, last contrail in the corpuscle.

There’s a crossroads. There’s canyon cut in her hood.

_I can fix that_ , he says, _I’m sorry, baby._

_Hmm_ , Dean says, _she’s coming for us all._

*****

_Oh my boy_ , someone says, hair like that corn, eye like that sky.

His brother hands him a sandwich, tips him a drink, gives his darling some fire and a hands-on.

_Do you remember it, the road. Will you remember it always,_ is what she says _._

It’s a dream, and all dreams are mothers.

Of monsters or gods.

*****

Sam’s wearing himself, only that, shotgun up the rainy road.

_What’s my name_ , the driver says, _say it._

_My father who art in heaven_ , he whispers, _my father who art in--_

Doesn’t blink yet. Restful, her leathers. Dawn and diner-sign gutter. Doves.

“Hey,” Dean says. Morning-breath seat-leaning soft, and the radio.

  _It’s light_ , she says, _I can take you there._

“Hey,” says his brother, “you were praying in your sleep.”


End file.
